


Mirror, Mirror

by Carmenlire



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec Lightwood Deserves Nice Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Alec Lightwood, Immortal Husbands, Immortal Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Magnus Bane Deserves Nice Things, References to Depression, Sad Alec, Sad Magnus, Time Skips, but like chill angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 08:42:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15991682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmenlire/pseuds/Carmenlire
Summary: The rest of his room is shrouded in shadow and he feels on display. His mind is a million miles away on nothing in particular while his gaze roves over his face, catalogs the smudged eyeliner and traces of glitter that trail along his cheekbones.He sees bloodshot eyes, drooping lids. He sees three day stubble and dull bruising on his jaw. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, as though he’s keeping it shut through sheer force of will or he’ll start screaming and never stop.They stare into the mirror and wonder if anyone will ever see the real them. Mirrors don't lie and they both wish hopelessly for something to change.





	Mirror, Mirror

He doesn’t feel anything. 

He looks down at the running water and it doesn’t feel real. He thinks that if he could find the effort to reach out, the water would just flow over his fingers like air.

Any sensation seems foreign. Unwelcome.

Well.

Except for the stinging cut on his arm and the dull throb of pain in his temple. He latches onto the injuries with a vicious satisfaction and determined grip. Patrol had been rough as hell tonight and while he’d emerged the victor, he hadn’t done so unscathed.

A shadowhunter to his core, he’s proud of his combat wounds.

On another level though, there’s a different pride singing through him as pain radiates.

He’s been in the bathroom for awhile now. He’s stripped out of his clothes and the shower is running in the background. He’d been about to brush his teeth-- planned to take a quick shower and then pass out for the next eight hours-- when he’d just lost whatever energy he’d been running on.

He has no idea how much time has passed as he stands stock still in the bathroom. He’s hyper focused on the water while at the same time it’s like he’s seeing it through a veil, hearing it through gauze.

He’s so tired.

It’s not just a long shift and the aftermath of an adrenaline surge that has him deflated like a sad old balloon. It’s everything.

It takes more effort than it should to raise his head and while most people would recoil, Alec just looks into the mirror with an expressionless gaze.

He sees the small details and the big picture at the same time like images overlaid and he’s found something else to pay all of his attention to.

He sees bloodshot eyes, drooping lids. He sees three day stubble and dull bruising on his jaw. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, as though he’s keeping it shut through sheer force of will or he’ll start screaming and never stop.

As his gaze flits over his features, he has the distant thought that he looks dead inside.

He’s tired. There’s never enough rest or maybe it’s the quality. Or maybe it’s just him.

He sees flat hair that never obeys his command and cheekbones that are just a hair too sharp. He wonders what everyone else sees.

As Alec stares rhapsodic over his reflection, he wonders whether anyone sees the real him. Not Alec, the heir to the illustrious, if tainted, Lightwood Dynasty. Does Jace know how his soul feels like a shallow flicker of despair? Does Izzy see how close he is sometimes to just standing up and walking out on everything, even to his eternal shame, her?

Sallow cheeks and bruised eyes. Wiping away the steam that’s accumulated from the shower, Alec leans closer into the mirror. Will anyone ever see Alexander? The man who loves classic literature, dark chocolate, and has an overwhelming fondness for animals?

His reflection is cold yet blurry. As he stares into himself, sees his imperfections laid out for anyone to catalog, he wonders if this is all that’s meant for him. Killing demons as blistering resentment builds day by day. For a culture that would shun him if they knew his true colors, for a family that splinters more and more every day, and for a traitorous heart that just can’t stop hoping for more.

He shudders, turning away from the mirror. He takes a step and stills in the quiet of the room. He feels dazed, miles away from the real him. He doesn’t know where to find the boy he once was, happy and open. He doesn’t know when that boy grew into a man so bitter. He doesn’t know when he grew used to the way bile scalds his throat when he thinks of his future.

He steps into the shower but doesn’t feel the water so hot it’s already turning his skin red. He doesn’t feel anything as he mechanically washes away blood and ichor, prods roughly at the cut on his arm that could’ve probably used stitches.

He doesn’t flinch at the sting, no. Instead, there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips as pain sears through him.

His only clear thought is that it’s the only thing he needs to feel, the only sensation he craves.

Mirrors don’t lie. Alec _is_ dead inside and with every day that passes, he loses any will he ever had to change things. He lost his rose tinted glasses long ago. He knows what’s waiting for him and as his younger, idealized self mourns, Alec hardens and turns that choking disappointment into an impenetrable shield. 

 

Magnus walks into his loft. He decidedly does _not_ stumble. The great High Warlock of Brooklyn would never be so inelegant. As soon as the door closes behind him, though, he’s collapsing against it, closing his eyes and breathing shallowly.

Everything is so much effort.

In the quiet of his haven, he can admit that he’s a bit drunk. He’s had a good time tonight-- insists to himself that the evening had been fun when the thought strikes hollow.

He gets his shoes off, flexing his toes against hard tile after a night spent dancing. With more clumsiness than grace he unbuttons and shrugs out of his jacket, letting it fall in a heap to the floor.

Not sparing it a thought, he heads directly to his drink cart. Pouring a double glass of whiskey, he downs half of it in one swallow, annoyed when it does nothing to warm his bones.

His bones have been cold for so long and they only grow more frigid and brittle with every day that passes.

He drains the rest of his glass and makes his way into his bedroom. His apartment is silent, almost eerily so. After hours of bass-thumping music splitting his veins apart and brushing against dozens of strangers in neon lights it’s a clash, a shock to his system, setting it reeling.

It feels like another world, like he’s found a pocket of the universe just for him. Somehow, it makes him even lonelier.

He pads down the hallway, doing his best to ignore the way his footsteps echo. He likes living alone and has always enjoyed his own company. But sometimes-- more often these days, though he tries his best to ignore it-- this feeling crawls into his chest and makes him long for a lover, a companion, a partner.

He has his friends and he has his duties and most of the time that’s enough to fill his days and his heart. But when the music fades and he’s left alone, he finds himself stuck. It’s a terrible, horrid feeling that makes Magnus want to set something on fire. It makes him want to yell and break things.

He doesn’t, of course. It’d be a petty display and underneath him. That doesn’t stop the want, though.

Turning on his bedroom lights with a careless wave of his hand, he settles onto the bench in front of his vanity.

The rest of his room is shrouded in shadow and he feels on display. He stares into the mirror with a kind of dazed interest. His mind is a million miles away on nothing in particular while his gaze roves over his face, catalogs the smudged eyeliner and traces of glitter that trail along his cheekbones.

He reaches for a makeup wipe mechanically, unfolding it in slow motion. Absently, he starts wiping off foundation and highlighter and lipstick. As layer after layer disappears, he’s left staring at his reflection. The real him, the one so few see.

After a moment or two, he dumps the wipe into the trashcan at his side and stills, blinking slowly as the night grows later.

It could be two or twenty minutes later before he’s able to latch onto a thought. He thinks of the endless nights that lay in front of him. His future is a blank page, infinite. He images a thousand more nights just like this and his soul bleeds in despair.

He needs a change of pace. He needs something but damned if he knows what. He’s centuries old and feels unimaginably weary. He’s happy-- he is-- but the quiet has always been his downfall.

The mirror doesn’t lie. Magnus’s eyes take in every weakness, every perceived imperfection. He blinks slowly and as his glamour disintegrates, he’s left gazing into slitted pupils and yellow irises.

The true him. The one no one ever stays long enough to see.

He sighs as the weight becomes just a bit more oppressive on his shoulders. He’s Atlas and his world is his past, his heritage. He’s proud of who he is, what he’s accomplished, but he can admit that it’s a lot. Perhaps it’s folly and foolishness to think anyone could help him shoulder that burden, his baggage.

He wonders if there’s anyone out there who could accept him, flaws and all, demon marks included. Where’s the person who wants to know his fondness for terrible puns and that he enjoys baking in the late afternoon. Is there someone out there or is he just hopelessly hopeful.

His lips curl but it’s less a smile, more a pained grimace.

Magnus has himself and that’s what counts. It’s romantic stupidity that has him yearning for love. He never learns.

With a last look into the mirror, where he sees hardened eyes and the defeated slant of his mouth, he stands, banishing the room to darkness.

He undresses without light and tumbles into bed. He’s so tired.

As his thoughts start slurring, he has enough wherewithal to think-- to wish-- that it’s just the alcohol making him so sentimental. He resolves to wake up and put the remnants of this night behind him.

Magnus Bane doesn’t yearn and he for damn sure doesn’t linger over things that will never happen. He’s more than that. He has to be.

 

He looks into the mirror. He sees unblemished skin and the grain of a perpetual five o’clock shadow. He sees clear eyes and strong hands. His hair is still dark and curling and his shoulders are strong and straight.

Tomorrow he’ll be seventy two and he looks the same as the day he first laid eyes on his soulmate.

He grins, a little dopey, as he thinks the word. _Soulmates_. Sure, there’s nothing scientific about the way he’s always been drawn to his husband but Alec doesn’t need science. He doesn’t need science or religion when he has Magnus Lightwood-Bane.

What are soulmates but fated partners of the heart. Alec’s lost hope in most things but never his love. 

Running a hand through his hair, not a gray strand in sight-- something that still stuns him on occasion-- he startles when arms wrap around his middle.

He shivers as lips nibble at his neck, as a voice he knows better than his own murmurs, “How are you feeling, Alexander?”

His smile widens as he sees golden eyes and a laughing mouth. “I’m feeling great, babe. What about you?”

Magnus’s hooks his chin over Alec’s shoulder and looks at the tableau the two of them make in the mirror. They’ve been married fifty years next spring and he still can’t quite believe his luck. He sees the love of his life-- eternal and unwavering-- and closes his eyes at the surge of emotion.

“Oh, I’ve never been better darling.” His voice is low as he noses along Alec’s back, kisses the jut of a shoulder blade.

Alec watches him through the mirror, a lifetime of fondness with the promise of lifetimes more in his eyes.

Happiness drips through him, his once starved soul sated and content in a way he never could’ve imagined. He turns around, away from the mirror.

Mirrors don’t lie but they can’t capture everything and Alec wants to see it all.

Turning, he leans against the counter, smiling as Magnus settles against him, as his arms tighten infinitesimally.

In the quiet of the room, they both relax. They don't need words. They never have. As silence lengthens and shadows grow, both are rocked by the wave of _rightness_ that settles in their chests. They both know that they’ve found their person.

Alec and Magnus have long since known that every weary gaze and lonely night was worth it. It brought them each other and there’s no place that they’d rather be than at each other’s sides.

The grandfather clock in the hallway strikes the hour and with it a new day.

“Happy birthday, my love,” Magnus says, voice achingly soft.

They kiss, lingering yet unheated. This is how Alec’s started his birthday for decades and it’s his favorite part of the day.

They break apart and let the moment settle between them before Magnus asks, “What would make this birthday perfect?”

Alec doesn’t even need to think. Unhesitatingly, he wraps arms around Magnus’s waist and pulls him closer.

“Nothing,” he says, voice sure. “I have everything I ever wanted.”

Magnus can’t help but smile, doesn’t try to stop the laugh that spills from him, light and incandescent. Alec soaks it in like the most potent sunshine.

He leans in, wanting to taste that light for himself and the mirror behind him shines at the scene, the sole witness to a love for the ages.

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on tumblr @carmenlire :)


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